My name is Orny and this is my blog. You may know me as a stand-up comedian and now you can know me better through my writing. (Please excuse all spelling and grammatically errors-- a man who is
his own editor has a fool for a client.)

Sunday, November 26, 2006

I am convinced people that don’t signal when turning have a deep communication problem. It is that simple.

It is one of the easiest things to do; as your hand is going to move the steering wheel a little to the right or a little to the left, you make this little extra effort and have a little part of your hand, even your little, little pinky, catch the arm of the blinker lever. Simple. Did I use the condescending word “Little” enough in that description? I like the fact that you can add the word “little” to any conversation and make it condescending. "Are you going out with your LITTLE friends tonight? OK, have fun at your LITTLE party and call me later. How’s that LITTLE job coming along?"

How hard is it to tell the other drivers, “I’m going this way?” The car manufacturers made it completely intuitive. They even added a cool sound effect to fool men into thinking communicating is not daytime TV mushy. The only thing that would make it easier would be for the car to just BLINK BLINK BLINK anytime the wheel is turned a certain number of degrees. (Hey, why the hell don’t they do that already?)

In fact, it’s actually difficult for people like me, the great people of the world, to NOT signal. Yes, it would take thought and restraint for me to not signal. (Applause) I am one of those people that even signals when turning into my driveway, late at night, when nobody is around. It is a habit… and a good habit. I even signal if I have a cigarette in one hand, my cell in another, and a bottle of booze in my lap… because it is a good habit.

I do it, because I like to tell the world—I am going left. I am going left and you better adjust your life right now for it. I do it because it is safer.

You don’t do it because you don’t feel like the world deserves to hear from you. You are a snob. A communication elitist. You are selfish. You don’t even deserve to read my words. Stop reading right now.

The trend today is to under communicate love and over communicate hate. (I know, it sounds like I am about to get really deep and philosophical. But hang in there, the dumb will be appeased.) The internet has become a worldwide dumping ground of drive by hatred. People cleverly slamming other people without any accountability. Most comments “people” write about other people, the “people” would not have the balls to say to their face. And I say, if you don’t have the balls to say it to their face-- then shut the hell up.

At what point did humans become so qualified at ripping apart other humans? Most of this hatred smells of self hatred. I say, “Zip it and live your own gawd damn life.” “You suck,” people love to write that on message boards. Really? And what the hell have you done to earn the merit of suck determinater? (Disclaimer: I have been personally and professionally maligned at times and may harbor ill, biased views about this topic. Let me rephrase that: I am biased and all my views on this topic should be weighted as such. Further thought… AT LEAST I AM COMMUNICATING-- I am giving you a signal.) I have always been sensitive to this, even as a kid, but in light of being in a dim spotlight for several years, I have become further aware.

Here lies another example: Let’s say I forget to signal (the one time). I am telling the cars behind me, “I don’t care about you. You see my brake light. You guess:” Is he turning? Did a ball roll out into the street? Did he see a cop? Is he one of these overbrakers? Is the car in front of him turning? (Overload, mind starts drifting.) Did I leave the lights on in the garage? Is that bumper getting closer? The result: The car behind me lays on the horn. That driver is saying, “Nice signal idiot!” He didn’t forget to communicate.

Secretly, I have longed to be deputized as an enforcer of signaling. I would like to have one of those little round police strobe lights I can put on my car’s roof at a moment’s notice. “What am I doing honey? I am enforcing the law. A long forgotten, but very important law.” I would write a ticket for the most heinous amount. The driver would cry, but would be forever reformed. I would rule the signal world. I am sick of guessing if a car is turning. Signaling means that much to me. And that little to most of you.

For now, I just honk, stick my head out the window and yell, “Signal,” like a crazy person.

Now that people are signaling less and less. We have come to expect it less and less. And sometimes when I’m going straight through an intersection, I can sense the driver in oncoming traffic thinks I’m turning left-- so they think they can turn left too-- I can see it in the body language of their car. Now, I have to speed up and put out that, “I’m going straight, don’t cut me off vibe.” And this scares the dickens out of me. When the vibe is not sufficient, I hammer it home with a Tomahawk Chop motion. Which may prevent an accident, but it is insensitive to Native Americans. Conflicted. Is it time for a “straight signal”?

People don’t give a crap about other people. Or most don’t. Or a majority that I see don’t. I see a lot of people wrapped up in themselves. How about the person that sees you on your cell phone and then right next to you starts (that means begins, wasn’t already on the phone) a louder call of their own? I shoot that person a look, and move away. The person that “signals” would read this as, “I did something wrong and in the future should amend my behavior.” The “non signaler” sees this as a victory and their behavior reinforced. Solution: Get closer and louder to that person-- invade their invasion. “What’s that noise in the background? An asshole!”

The world has become a self seeking, self absorbed, self Narcissistic (that means worse than just Narcissistic), “Get the hell out of my way—I’m coming through,” society: My kid deserves TMX Elmo more than yours. If you can’t help the self, if the self doesn’t need you, then the self doesn’t care about you. Help a lady across the street only if you anticipate a big tip. Hold the door for me and I’m not going to thank you. I am going to shove my life, my little cell phone in your face. Cancer is the least of the problems caused by these phones-- they’re not even cell phones anymore—they’re “Self Phones” with unlimited piss everyone off minutes.

Wednesday, October 25, 2006

Thanks for all the emails and support in the past several months—you deserve a semi-explanation.

THE STORY SO FAR:

This has been a long, long process. And I must admit, I am, I was, and I will continue to be overextended as I naively underestimate the grandness of producing a project like this. I took on way too much. And as the project progressed, I took on more and more and even more. And even as the CD/DVD is in production, I can not rest.

Now I am setting up publicity and marketing. Something I had NO time to even address in the past 6 months. I did not have the resources to hire a publicist, I don't have a manager, and recently I parted with my agents. And so I stand proudly before you all-- humbly, officially a team of one.

I chose to distribute the CD/DVD myself in light of very few other opportunities. Using whatever incredible resources are available to an artist these days-- Myspace, Youtube, the entire web-- feeling a sense of enthusiasm because technology has basically leveled the playing field. I took a gamble-- that I could get my CD/DVD into people's hands without initially getting into Walmart or Best Buy or having a marketing machine behind me to drive sales. But there's always the hope that this project will catch that type of momentum.

I am now working with YET ANOTHER set of web designers trying to get a good web page. It's not easy for people like me. I have a distinct vision and very specific desires, and finding people to carry them out on a budget is almost impossible. I will say, in the course of this CD/DVD project I did work with some incredible people. And their dedication to my project wowed me at times. But it doesn't look like that new, fresh Ornyadams.com will be up and running for the release. So please excuse me on that.

Sometime last year I decided to record a simple CD in Las Vegas in December. Not happy with my shows (Is this a shock to anybody?), I opted to eat my investment and set another date to record. I can remember sitting at the pool at Harrah's in Vegas, midway through the week, calling the Icehouse in Pasadena, CA and setting up a date for March 2006. I chose to produce and fund this project myself in order to have complete creative control. I've seen artist get hammered in the past by other's tweaking their work. Would a painter ever allow someone to guide his paintbrush? Hope not.

And then a simple CD turned into a very ambitious DVD. I have explained all this in the liner notes. It's a cool story. I pumped all my savings into The Path and assembled an incredible team of people to help carry out my exacting vision.

"Path of Most Resistance," is a 70 minute CD and DVD to match, which has gotten great reviews from GARRY SHANDLING, DENNIS MILLER, and JERRY SEINFELD to mention a few. The DVD has two extra features-- including me doing stand up in Fiji for a bunch of kids that don't speak English. It comes in a 6 panel digipack with a 16 page booklet. I am excited to share it all with you. The official release date is November 10, 2006, but will be available for fans the week before at the perpetually shitty www.Ornyadams.com.

Thursday, August 31, 2006

I say this for two reasons: First, the hardest thing for humans to be is human. Second, most of the time, as humans we choose to believe our heroes are not human. But maybe they achieved hero status by being just that- pure human. (Super human not super hero.)

The other day, we took a break from editing my CD/DVD and headed into Studio City to try this new BBQ place. The place sold burritos. Which was a bit confusing to me, as a man who adopted the south in his college years. In other words, I am an unqualified BBQ snob now. I’ll often toss around terms like “hush puppies” to elevate my status in a BBQ discussion. Now, on my first bite, as the rib was halfway between my plate and my mouth, a glob of what gravity deemed excessive sauce, dripped onto my lap. Just missing the mere 30% of my lap the napkin covered and nailing me right on my khaki shorts. Dammit! Immediately, I excused myself from the table to go clean up in the bathroom. As I created a huge wet patch I determined would self dry by the end of the meal, I realized I was afraid to be human. I should’ve worn that stain as a badge of great human imperfection. You think I am the only person to spill food on themselves? Yet, it is hard for me to admit I am a messy eater. Too often we hide under the facade of perfection, whether we know it or not.

When I wander the cultural landscape, observing humanness, I often repeat this riddle in my head: What is the the one thing we all are, and the one thing we are all afraid of being—human. There is a fear of being human. But being human is a constant, probably the only thing you and I have in common.

Rolling Stone put Dylan on the cover of this week’s issue to coincide with the release of his new album. So there’s a 65 year old Dylan staring at me with his intense blue eyes. The same eyes, same stare he’s been giving us for over 45 years. Longer than I have been alive. Those eyes remain static in time. But now they are encased by signs of aging—wrinkles, graying eyebrows, sideburns and even gray ear hair. The picture is so tight you can see how poor Dylan is at shaving. About the most interesting thing I learned about Bob from this Rolling Stone interview. The picture is classic Dylan; a cautious glare with a slight squint, as if an unimpeded view of the world is too much to bear.

To the left of his picture are these words: “The Genius of Dylan. An Intimate Conversation.” I get uncomfortable anytime someone refers to anybody as genius. Especially in the arts, where genius is unquantifiable. Even in the case of Bob Dylan, who I consider a genius. But that is my business, my opinion, and quite debatable. My awe and adoration of Dylan is no secret. I credit him as one of my greatest influences. I even dressed like him for a while. When I need career guidance, I study his moves. He is as pure of an artist as I can think of. And yet he is human.

The myth of Dylan is even too big for Dylan. He helped chisel his pubic persona and he has done much to sandblast it. Yes, he is a contradiction. At times denying he is the voice of the 60s. But in this article claiming he owns the 60s. Not Civil Rights, not Vietnam, not free love and drugs, Bob Dylan has spiked his flag down and claimed the 60s his very own. And this reporter let this comment just drip off Dylan’s tongue uncontested. Shame on him.

I respect Dylan more when he downplays his role. It takes a strong man to deny his own myth, I’m not too sure I could do it. We all want to part of a myth. For some of us, it’s a small town myth—the guy who chugs the most beer. For others, they want to be up on the pantheon of myths. I’m not too sure when you get to Dylan’s place you even have enough clarity to know what is your myth and what is your nonfiction. A man like Dylan has basically donated his life to listeners like me. He is a soldier who sacrificed normalcy for the good of the state. Although, I don’t think he had a choice.

Stop tiptoeing! Can somebody please give Bob an honest interview? He deserves just that. Somebody who hasn’t memorized his every lyric, knows what song is on what album, what year he wore eyeliner, or who has read every interview.

Most interviews of Dylan, I won’t read. They seem overly gracious and submissive. Most people don’t know how to interview Bob. Now, in all fairness, I have never been in the room with Bob. Would probably never want to be. It’s dangerous to meet your heroes. And maybe he is masterfully adept at dodging questions and controlling an interview. But most of Dylan’s answers are brilliantly disguised mockery. He’s laughing at you. “Go ahead and print this,” he must be thinking the whole time. I base this on his early radio interviews where he would claim to have run away as a teenager and worked in a traveling circus. Bob went to college and was in a fraternity. Which is a far cry from his salt of the earth roots he wants you to buy into.

On 60 minutes a few years ago, Dylan made one his most important statements in modern times. Something about knowing he had something important inside him to share, but if he announced it, people would try to squash it. I heard this a few years too late. I think one of the missteps I took early on in my career was to point into the seats in right field and then pop out.

It seems to be a game that Dylan plays with reporters when he is bored. Something I have adopted. He told us what he expects of reporters in “Don’t Look Back.” A great glimpse into an insecure Dylan who is enviously and scornfully taping articles of his chief rival Donovan on the walls of his hotel room. In a great scene, Dylan rips into a reporter from Time magazine. (I believe it is Time, I am on a plane right now to Richmond, VA, so I can’t fact check that.) Through the lens eye of documentarian D.A. Pennebaker, we get a must see look at an artist. And I know a lot of my readers like documentaries.

I just did an interview for the paper in Richmond and the guy asked me to describe my comic voice. I said, “It’s about the unbelievable state of human unconsciousness.” I was bored. I guess those words mean something to me. They aren’t that far off from a clear, honest answer. I guess I was dodging a question I didn’t think there was a proper answer for-- that was fair to me and the readers. What I really was saying was, “My voice is what it is.” It may be one thing to you and another thing to an ex girlfriend. It’s indefinable and should be just that. Maybe we’re putting too much emphasis where we shouldn’t. It’s not about, “The voice of Orny Adams.” The guy sort of questioned the line. Asked me to repeat it. “The unbelievable what?” More than I expected of him. But he’ll print it—you’ll see. And I’m sure it’ll say something like, “The unbelievableness of the world.”

Dylan understands the value of ambiguity. He won’t just let you in. And a good artist understands that being misunderstood is a good thing. I was surprised he claimed the 60s. I bet on another day he would greatly refute such a claim. He doesn’t need to make such grandiose statements, he’s got plenty people out there to do it for him.

So once again, I read another Dylan interview and I feel I am no closer to him as a human. Dylan writes songs. Some great songs. Some brilliant songs. Some shitty ones too. But once you achieve genius status, those shitty songs are channeled into a part of most brains under a banner, “I must not be smart enough to understand this part of his genius.” Nope—they are shitty. A $100 bottle wine doesn’t have to taste good to you.

Dylan should interview himself. Did you read Chronicles? It reads as one beautiful, cohesive song. The man can write. The man has insight. He is truly gifted. It’s as if he was born enlightened. As if his struggle was in the womb.

I would like to see Dylan interviewed by a non-Bob fan. Someone who admirers the artist, but is not afraid to really ask him the questions. Someone willing to trade an honest question for an honest answer. Someone willing to go in there unprepared and let the interview take on a life of it’s own.

What makes Dylan cry? Can someone ask a simple question like that?

As I am preparing to release my first comedy CD/DVD, I’d be remiss if I didn’t let you know I am quite scared. Tediously fine combing every second of the 68 minutes for the past five months. Micromanaging every step of the way, it has become my life. It’s not easy to share this much of oneself with a mass collection of strangers. Believe me, I’ve thought about scrapping the project a dozen times. I’ve threatened myself. But that’s my own insecurity. My own unwillingness to be 100% human. My unwillingness to show my ear hair on the cover of Rolling Stone. There are moments on the DVD that my hair is all I can focus on. It is so out of sorts. I don’t hear the jokes, or see the camera work. I just see my hair. A legacy of bad hair. I purposely didn’t get a haircut because I wanted to treat this night like any other. In other moments, I didn’t nail a line exactly as I had in the past. But can anybody else really tell? That show was absolutely magical and I was fortunate to catch it on tape. And any comedian who has ever tried to make a tape, will know exactly what I am talking about. There are a host of things that can go wrong. (See my special features.)

In the end, I can only hope the project represents me. The me I see inside me. Time will tell. And if I don’t, I’ll get it right the next time. The subjectiveness of it all frightens me. The CD/DVD is supposed to represent thirteen years of hard work—if that is possible. The CD/DVD is named, but I will not share that with you at this time. The name is deeply personal. It represents self struggle and I am still unsure how to depict this in a snapshot on the cover. To be human is to make mistakes. To be human is to not repeat mistakes. To be a comedian is to celebrate and announce your own mistakes. This is nothing new. To err is human, right? When I was a kid I stuck my finger in a socket once. ONCE!

I poured all my heart into this project. Nobody on the project has slept much since we taped in March. We are conscious of it every waking second. I produced the project. I wanted to own it. I wanted to paint the exact picture I had in my head onto the canvas. And current technology allows me this freedom. I can even self distribute on the web if I choose. Originally it was going to be a simple CD. At the last minute, I threw cameras into the mix. It’s an interesting story. A story I will share with you in the liner notes. But the DVD is special to me because it was shot in an intimate club. These clubs have been my home on the road for the past decade. It is the way comedy is supposed to be seen. No crane shots, like an overproduced comedy special. The audience was there to see me, not some paid TV audience. And most special, it was all my savings could afford.

Since you made it this far, and in this day and age, I like to reward anybody willing to read, I will make a confession. No I won’t tell you the name of my CD/DVD, but I will tell you “The unbelievable state of human unconsciousness,” is something deep inside of all of us. Something so simple. Something if accepted, there would be no war, no starvation, it is the key to eradicating most human suffering. Sometimes I think I have a grasp on it, and other times it slips through my fingers. But they are not just words.

And so once again, I turn to Bob for answers-- To a man who helped me be a little bit more human. Today his new album comes out. I’ll post this, then run out and get it. Maybe it is exactly the inspiration I need to finish my project. I can obsess on a song. One time I listened to a single Leonard Cohen song over and over again from New York City, over most of this beautiful country of ours, right into Los Angeles. (Closing Time.)

*** Orny Adams is a stand-up comedian who is usually a lot funnier than what you just read.

Wednesday, August 16, 2006

I was at the gym earlier today, where they force me to watch the news for the forty five minutes as I’m doing cardio. I guess it’s supposed to make me run faster. I would run a lot faster if they put the TV behind me and I could pretend I'm running away from the world.

The big story this morning, of course, is the conflict in the Middle East. Hezbollah was celebrating the cease fire by firing off their guns. Does that say it all? It’s like an impulse for them. They fire when they’re happy or angry or bored or anti-Semitic. You know, they hate the West too, but they’re very Americanized. They have a Gap in Iran… that sells the coolest suicide bomber belts. Blow yourself up in fashion, that’s the slogan.

Then a story came on about the let up of carry on restrictions at airports and I thought, “Oh good, they're allowing us to bring lipstick on planes again-- cause you want to look good going down.” Most of these things we have to do at the security check point don’t make any sense. Once again, we all have to take our shoes off and put them on the belt. This I do understand, because that dude tried to blow up a plane using his shoes. It’s a pain in my ass, wish he had tried to blow up his bra. That’s what we need—to catch a Bra Bomber.

Now they can’t just beat us down a 100% of the time with these depressing stories of violence and hate. So they do it 90% of the time. They use that other 10% to throw in a human interest story. Something most people could care less about: Boy blows biggest bubble in the world. A dog that can walk upright like a human. Some new diet for us to pin our hopes on. Stuff like that. But it was interesting to learn that the personal computer is celebrating it’s 25th anniversary. The first computer only had 17 kilobytes of memory. (That is a good fact to toss into a conversation and make myself look smarter.) Now computers are in virtually everything we touch.

In fact, washers and dryers are going to link wirelessly to your computer or cell phone so they can send us updates when a wash is done or a lint filter is clogged.

The last thing I need is a text message from my dryer. I get enough emails I don’t need from people—now I have to communicate with my electronics. I’m fine with guessing when a load is done. I’m usually plus or minus five minutes. However, I would like an email if someone in the laundry matt is taking my clothes out of the dryer and putting them on top of the machine.

But the LAST thing I need are text messages from THINGS: I’m out to dinner and my phone starts shaking, “Everything OK?”“Yeah, my dishwasher’s mad at me. I got to run.”

My dad found my Playboys… twenty years too late. Technically they weren’t mine. My neighbor Sean would steal the Playboys from his dad and sneak them into the second level of my garage. We formed a club called the “Playboy Club.” I know, I was always very creative. Originally, it was the “Bubble Yum Club,” and we would only chew grape flavored gum, a pack at a time. But we outgrew that club pretty quick and quicker because of comments from people like Ted who called us gay. This was back when everything was gay. And saying gay was acceptable. “You playing basketball today? No, what are you gay?” And Ted was pretty cool, by seventh grade he had already formed a band that played mostly Rush covers. The Bubble Yum Club was in Sean’s basement, but the Playboy Club had to be in a far more inaccessible place. And my garage had this second level that was not used by anybody. Mostly because you had to climb up a ladder backwards through a small hole. Easy to get in, impossible and scary to get out. But for naked chicks, it was worth it. A philosophy that would follow me my entire life.

“What the hell were you doing up there?,” I asked my dad, partly impressed he was even able to get up there. “The person who owned the house before us came over and wanted to look around,” he told me. This was a very religious family who put up a priest in a room in the attic. Which would explain why in strange crevices in hard to reach places, between exposed pink insulation, I would find crucifixes and pictures of Jesus Christ. I also remember finding books and old medicine bottles. It spooked this young boy. And I’m sure it spooked the previous owner to find the Playboys.

But it was nice to be reunited with my Playboys. An old friend, the gift of a memory. My dad handed me a stack and on the top was an issue with Steve Martin on the cover. I guess I was doing research.

I grew up in a small town outside of Boston that seems even smaller as I get older. Everyone knows everyone and you could leave the house without your wallet and cell phone and still be safe. Under the word “STOP”, on the one stop sign in my neighborhood, somebody scribbled “Bush.” At Halloween the farm down the street places pumpkins in the middle of a rotary and nobody smashes them. It shocks me every year. We don’t lock our doors. When the mailman came to the door the other hot day, my mom offered him water. When my dad noticed a neighbor’s plants looked in need of watering, he called to remind them and offered to do it if they were out of town. It’s a real community. Quiet. Respectful. Very few get out. Houses are passed down to the next generation. Change is slow. I did notice something new downtown-- huge planters obstructing a driver’s view if taking a left out of the depot onto the main street. “That’s not safe,” I thought, “Who approved that?” You have to inch out and basically cause an accident to go left.

So when my dad found the Playboys, we did what you do in a small town, we marched right over to Sean’s house to return them. Sean was shocked, but you could tell they jarred the same memories inside him. My dad tossed them down on the whicker patio table. Sean laughed, had a look of a man who committed a crime that was well beyond the statute of limitations and no longer punishable. Shaking his head he conceded, “Jim’s Playboys.” Jim is his dad. The one who sold him his house. Jim was a bit of mystery to all of us. A bearded man who hid inside his house. And only allowed Sean and I to play in certain parts of it. But when he was not there, we would go into his closet and steal Playboys. I asked him if he thought his father ever noticed, He said, “Jim noticed everything.” I said, “Oh, then let Jim know we’re done with these.”

Sean was quite a bit older than me. Even older than my older sister. He was my smut dealer. He was also the one who taught me how to swear. I saw him get hit by a car on his bike. He was about twice my size. We would socialize in the neighborhood, but he wouldn’t be caught dead talking to me in the center of town. I understood. What was even more shocking was the moment we realized the other night, that he was only three years older than me. But back then, it felt like decades. Now a three year difference is nothing, in fact I try to convince younger women that ten years is nothing.

My dad left and Sean and I caught up. I heard names I had not heard or thought of in years. I was curious to know if my town had produced any senators or congressmen, anybody making an impact on the world. But all the while, I kept looking at those Playboys, thinking the last time I saw them I was too young to understand them sexually. I knew having them was wrong, I think that is what I liked about them best. The ads in these old issues were hilarious. Way outdated electronics and Wrangler jeans. But one thing was constant—the women. It’s been that way since the first one blessed us with her presence on this planet. The landscape of the world is in a state of constant flux, but the power of women and their hold over men will never change.

Now, I have never been a Playboy reading type of guy. I like to look at women I have a chance at. It’s very intriguing what is attractive to certain men though. My sister got married yesterday and I found myself trying to understand what drew certain couples together. Some of these girls I have known their entire lives. And I can see how they are attractive, but I never looked at them in that way. But yet to another guy, this is the girl he wants to wake up next to for the rest of his life. Fascinating.

My one contention with family functions is having to explain my story over and over again to different people. It’s nice that they care, but it’s not an easy story to tell. I have finally outgrown the need to justify my occupation, thankfully. Sometimes I wish I had a boring job so I wouldn’t have to carry so many conversations.

I enjoyed catching up with my elementary school principal. Now, I had gone to a school aptly named “Adams School,” which shut down due to budgetary reasons when I was in third grade. But my last year at Adams was an interesting one. We had this teacher, who I should probably not name, who we drove absolutely insane. You could easily describe my class as obnoxious. We had a reputation for being the worst the town had ever seen. We outnumbered the teacher and we knew it. I spent more time in the hall than in the classroom. One day, after we sang these lyrics from “America” (My Country, 'Tis of Thee)-- “Land of the pilgrims' pride, from every mountainside let freedom ring!,” I grabbed the bell off the teacher’s desk, that she used to quiet the class, and rang that bell. Man did I ring that bell. And man did she lose it. It was great. I had desecrated the sanctity of that bell. “Out into the hall!,” she screamed. You mean I have to go sit in the hall instead of in the boring class learning, what a punishment? I had that system beat. Halfway through the year, she quit. We returned after winter break-- but she didn’t. And we celebrated because we won. We had driven her out. We still celebrate when reunited with old classmates. But I was always suspicious that there was more to the story. That maybe we weren’t all that bad. She seemed off. Even as a kid, you kind of pick up on certain signals, even if you don’t know what they mean, you know things just don’t seem to add up. And in this case I was correct. I asked my principal, “Remember Mrs. X, what really happened to her?” Sure enough, Mrs. X had a whole set of problems which may have included not wanting to hear loud bells when hung over.

As I bounced from conversation to conversation I ran into a good family friend who is a town selectman. I told Norman about those planters obstructing driver’s views. I told him you could probably pull them back ten feet and it’d be fine. He assured me he’d look into it first thing Monday morning. It’s 1pm on Monday now, and I’m sure if I went downtown I would see a bunch of people dragging those dangerous planters back ten feet. How lucky these people are to live in a real community.

The day was nice. My sister got married. I gave a toast. I realized something when I was writing that toast. I realized that with all my successes and all my failures (I wanted to say a shitload of failures. But it was inappropriate, so I do this thing were I say the word in my head, but not out loud. And hopefully the audience can sense it.) I realized, all you need is love. The Beatles were right. A partner in crime. Someone to agree with you. When people ask me what I am looking for, I tell them a woman that hates the same things as me. I don’t want to hear, “Maybe you’re overreacting.”

My sister married a real sports fanatic. And we grew up in a family that only used the sports section to start a fire in the fireplace. But they say opposites attract. They met on a blind date. And the probabilities of that working are astronomically low. In fact, you have a better chance of being struck by lightning holding a winning lottery ticket than finding a mate on a blind date. And I’m not even going to tell you what the probability is of having a successful blind date the same year the Red Sox won the world series.

I got home from the wedding and I knew exactly what I needed to do—go up in that attack into some strange crevice and find that bell Mrs. X never came back to claim.

I am writing in response to your piece, “An Inconvenient Heat Wave.” Partly because I was moved, frustrated, and could relate as a victim of a three hour blackout last night. It was horrible. This morning my milk tasted sour and my through-the-door dispenser was discharging half dissolved ice.

We are in agreement, Americans need to cut back on all forms of consumption. We may in fact be addicted to consumption. We love to consume and to over consume. We are spoiled. And nobody likes a spoiled bitch. We need to teach moderation in our classrooms. I think after six non-denominational prayers, we teach moderation. Then we spank the kids. Wasn’t the world a better place when we spanked? Nobody spanked this current generation of twenty something’s and they’re begging for it from their mates in the bedroom. I think the message is loud and clear, we want to be spanked. I was spanked as a kid, and I can tell you honestly, as the lord is my witness, I have never needed anything more than the missionary position.

I disagree that the end is near. I haven’t seen any sales at Macy’s. And your “Sky is falling” cries are not only irresponsible, but reckless. Motivating by fear is wrong. A few weeks ago, we were all paralyzed with concern because North Korea was testing a long range nuclear missile. Could a North Korean missile reach U.S. soil pondered the pundits? Ponder no further. That missile didn’t hit us, it hit North Korea. So, as it turned out, North Korea should be more concerned that North Korea has nuclear weapons. And I wasted all that time worrying about whether I should convert my game room into a bomb shelter when I could’ve used that time on Youtube.

Don’t you think if we’re headed into an apocalypse Christ himself would come back first? And that can’t be, because I haven’t received an Evite from him yet. I think the final sign of the end would be this headline, “World blames Jews for heat wave.” On that note, we have a bunch of those Jews in my town, and you know what, they’re not bad people. Friendly and considerate. Although, I suspect they are working undercover because they aren’t wearing those Yamulkes.

But overall, I applaud you. You nailed it! Conservation will secure our future. Not mine, I’m sure I will not live long enough to see the detriments of global warming. I hope I do, I’m sick of my winter heating bills. But I trust the negative of global warming outweighs the momentary frustration I feel when I have to decide which is the appropriate bin for my recyclable item. So, I am cutting back for the future of my kids and I’m taking action right now! I’m not waiting for inspiration from a t-shirt campaign from Puff Daddy this time.

“Na na na na na na, watch me consume,” that is the taunting message we are sending out to the world. I think this is why most of the world has a negative impression of us. Look at the way we stuff our faces with food, retreat to our air conditioned homes and complain about our slow internet connections. Could we be contributing to global warming with our fat bodies radiating heat? Don’t laugh, our next war could be a war for cooking oil. Who’s controlling all the Canola?

Are we that crazy? I live in a country where it’s illegal to burn our money, but not to burn our flag. (Defacement of currency is a violation of Title 18, Section 333 of the United States Code.) Yet in parts of the world, flag burning is a pastime, a group activity, and money is so scarce that desecration is not even an option. Has burning of the American flag contributed to global warming?

I have already made adjustments in my life and your readers should know how easy it was. For instance, now when I watch TV, I do it with my surround sound off. Which means when I watch the news, I’m hearing people suffer in other parts of the world with just my crummy factory installed TV speakers. But I still get the point. And as I suffer, living my life stripped of luxuries, I feel closer to my international brothers and sisters. Sure, I’m not drinking water from a river my brother’s mule is defecating in… yet, but surround sound really enhances the viewing experience.

In addition, I am only using my automatic garage doors once a day. I am keeping the air conditioning set at 68. My wine cellar at 55. Ceiling fans will only be on when someone is in the room or on the same floor or somewhere in the state. My son’s trophy display case is only lit up when we have company over. These are just a few examples.

Want more? The other day, instead of getting in my car and driving across the parking lot to the Wal-Mart, I walked to the Best Burger. I must admit I was shocked to learn that my car only gets three and a quarter parking lot miles per gallon. But every little bit helps. Please do your part too.

I just got back from jury duty and how pathetic is this-- I was the only one in the room that cheered when they told us we were getting paid 15 bucks a day? After all these years, I finally got called for jury duty. And I didn’t try and get out of it. I wanted to fulfill my civic duty. I wanted to get picked. I didn’t.

If you get called, you will need to be prepared for a day of hell: Tensions, uncertainty, and new friendships. The type of friends you will have for the rest of your nine hours in jury duty.

So be prepared to spend all day bored. Bring a book. Nothing heavy, as you will want to keep one eye focused on the gallery of freaks. And there will be hundreds of freaks to keep you entertained.

Pick a good seat: The guy next to me was a professional conversation starter. The type of guy you don’t want to make eye contact with. He can take any “in” and launch into some self-fulfilling conversation at the expense of anybody within earshot. I watched this guy work the room the entire day. Stalking his prey like a pro. It was fascinating. Especially to a socially shy guy like me. I could never approach a person like that.

They put you in this huge room with the warmth of a smoking lounge in an airport. And immediately they inform everyone that most likely you’ll be spending all day in this tired room. That was the most frustrating part- being tethered to this fake wood paneled room, with excessive neon lights, and a damp smell and feel to it. They should give us all those buzzers you get when you go to a restaurant and want to wander the area. I’m just shocked that the Cheesecake Factory is better equipped than our court houses.

Next, find a veteran of the jury duty system: They will be your shaman for the day. Guide you through every nuance. Explain what to expect. My shaman had a walker with those tennis balls buffering the front legs with the floor. Well, of course it had those tennis balls. They all do. Why the “walker people” don’t strike a deal with Wilson is beyond me? I hate to imagine these old people cutting open tennis balls. That can’t be safe. Like pumpkin carving for the aging-- nursing home arts and crafts 101. I wanted to ask the lady who cut her balls, but that just seems wrong. I feel bad for an aging tennis star. Like Agassie being forced to spend his final days pushing along those tennis balls as a reminder of what he once was.

Throughout the day, they will call panels. That is when they call about 40 names to go into a court room for jury selection. Of those 40, it will be chiseled down to 14. Twelve for the jury plus 2 alternates. Here is my advice, as a veteran now, if you feel a panel call coming on… And sometimes you can feel it like a earthquake or tornado. Your joints might get sore or a slight twitch in the eye. Anyway, this is what you do… sign out on a 20 minute break. You can do that whenever you want. And if you are out and get called… they go to the next name. And hopefully that next name is the annoying professional conversation starter sitting next to you.

Late in the day you will get tired. Bring, and as ridiculous as this sounds, one of those horseshoe pillows people wear on a plane. Bring an eye mask if you have the guts. As the day wears on, and people are picked, more seats open up and you can really spread out. I brought a masseuse. And she had one of those tables.

And it should go without saying, wear something comfortable. The days of class and decorum are over. Dress like a defendant in loose baggy clothing. But leave the big gold chains at home, as you will be entering and re-entering court all day and going through metal detectors.

Big tip: Bring some magazines. You can trade these like cigarettes in a prison. I traded a Rolling Stone for an US Weekly and then late in the day traded that for a scented candle and a coupon for 6 free nuggets at McDonalds.

Keep your ears open. You will be fascinated by the intellectual discourse going on around you. The girls behind me were cute. Cute and dumb. Here is an actually excerpt from 9 hours of their conversation that riveted me.

CUTE GIRL #1: I’m from New England. We have the best seafood in the world.

CUTE GIRL #2: (confused)I thought Maine has the best lobster?

CUTE GIRL #1: Maine is in New England. (condescendingly) You need to learn your geometry.

And at that moment my mind drifted into some nightmare fantasy land, of me on trial with my life in the balance and these two girls among 12 deciding my fate.

Now that airlines are charging us to sit in the exit row$, I propose something even more ludicrous. Since we (we being the passengers sitting in the exit row) are assuming more responsibility, we should be paid for our duty. Twenty percent of the value of our ticket. And I further propose that you must be certified by the airlines, in a one day training class, to man the emergency row. “It” is not as straightforward as you would think. It’s also imperative that we have able bodied people, with sound minds, and acute knowledge of what to do in the event of a water landing, or a general “Holy shit, get me the hell of this airplane,” evacuation. Most of the time, the people in the exit row look like they would have trouble opening a jar of peanuts. I hate to think my safety relies on these people to competently open the door and start inflating that cool looking air shoot. (Did I see a similar shoot for sale in the Skymall Magazine? Next to the 6-pack hot dog cooker? I sure hope so!)

Charging for the exit row$ has essentially created a fourth class in the sky. In this order: First, business, exit row, and coach. Now I tell people I fly exit row. I brag, “Yeah, I’m in exit,” as I look down on the commoners in coach. And yes, I would like a curtain separating the exit row too. And I would also like to be seated first and have them parade all the jealous coach passengers by me… as I sip a cold complimentary soda.

And for those people that think that anybody can do “it”. Well you are wrong. Even I failed the test. Some time back, I was comfortably seated in the exit row when I was confronted by an overly dutiful flight attendant and asked in a very condescending manner if I knew what to do in the event on an emergency. I said, “Take the door off, throw it into the ocean, and jump out.” She said, “That is incorrect. You must take the door off,” and in the most calm manner, she continued, “Place it on the seats in the exit row.” “Place it on the seats? Is there any “placing” in this situation? And where… on top of that guy?” I thought. She said, “Do you understand?” I smiled and retorted lightly, “Yes, but I can’t guarantee that in the heat of the moment I won’t just huck it and get the hell off the plane.” I was then informed that the door is filled with gasoline and if thrown out could cause an explosion. She missed the joke. So better to cause an explosion on the plane? What if the plane is on fire, can I huck it out then? Or is it still better to light the exit row on fire, then leave? I had a million thoughts all fighting for first out of the mouth. But before I could rip apart the safety rules, she had turned around and headed for the front of the plane. I won!

I didn’t like being lectured in school on how to evacuate a bus and I didn’t like the similar tone with this particular emergency exiter enforcer. How amusing were those annual bus evacuation drills in school? We would’ve all protested them if they didn’t eat into class time. I got caught once trying escape out the bus window and apparently very little has changed in my respect level for organized evacuation drills since.

I thought I had won—not quite. In the food prep galley, court was now in session. Fingers pointed, a gaggle of flight attendants broke into an impromptu conference to discuss, I figured, what to do with the errant passenger in seat 10A. My response was not taken lightly and nor should it be. I had questioned the higher power of the F.A.A.. And when two attendants came back to aisle 10, I knew what was coming. They were going to move me and blame the F.A.A.. The FAA-- a mysterious group of rule makers that don’t allow us to use our MP3 players at certain times because they might, “Interfere with the pilot’s communicating with air traffic controllers.” They are fine at ten thousand feet though. What a bunch of hooey. Chalk that stratagem up on the blackboard under the category holding such nonsense as “Something’s in the pool that will turn red if you urinate,” or “Sitting too close to the TV will someday make you re-elect George W. Bush.”

I was just being honest when I told them I might huck the door. I stood firm on my answer when the two flight attendants returned. I was asked to move to another seat. I did. No emergency arose on that flight. The doors were never removed. And not to sound old, but this was in the days when they weren’t charging us for exit row$. Are they really filled with gas?

They love to disguise excuses and redirect the blame. Isn’t that the way of the world? Here is the most overused phrase in travel—security risk. The airlines use it as an excuse for everything. You can’t get up to go to the bathroom right now-- it’s a security risk. No congregating in the aisles—a security risk. We don’t have pillows anymore—because it was a security risk. No more food- it was a security risk. We can’t be nice—because it’s a security risk. Your comfort and happiness—a security risk.

I feel like the airlines are constantly deceiving us. These days, the planes are always full. And yet, they claim to be losing money. So what is the paradigm for success? Is it taxing us for little extras? Like a movie theatre that generates most of it’s money from the $8 bucket of popcorn? It’s odd to me that food has different values in different places. Chocolate in a movie theater-- is like gold. Mushrooms, not expensive in the supermarket, but on a slice of pizza doubles the pizza’s value.

They deceive us! If you travel enough, from time to time you get hit with this oddity: “We may have taken off late, but we’ll make up for lost time in the air.” Well why didn’t we go that route in the first place? Was it a security risk?

The airlines like to control us down to the very last pound in our suitcases. As of two years ago, we can no longer have more than 50 pounds per bag. A sharp drop from the 75 pound allowance. But you can have two bags equaling 100 pounds. But not one bag at 51 pounds. Two bags totaling 100 are free. One bag at 51 is a $100. Do you see what I’m getting at? It is absurd. They claim it is for the safety of their bag handlers. Well then how does my $100 help with their safety? I’m quite sure they don’t see a cent of those extra dollars. They are still unsafe and the airlines are richer. They couldn’t say it was an overall weight limit issue, because 51 pounds is less than 100. It’s an excuse. An excuse to make money. They have all these excuses that make no sense… but they make them a ton of money. I feel like I am in an abusive relationship with the airlines. They are controlling me and lying to me at the same time. And I don’t mind if you lie to me—just buy me lunch.

But they don’t even do that anymore!

Paying more is not a security risk however. SELL! SELL! SELL! SELL! SELL! SELL! That is what the airlines are forcing their employees to do. And oversell that exit row-- they sure do. It was a well rehearsed speech, including exact specifications of extra leg room. I get the feeling they’re rewarded for each exit seat they sell—like an electronics salesman who successfully cons a customer into that unnecessary extended warranty.

Today, I paid $100 more for my overweight bag. $49 to sit in an exit row. And $8 for a meal for purchase. It got so bad, when the gate person asked for my photo ID I inadvertently handed him my credit card. I can’t imagine if they’re this cheap with us, how cheap they are with their employees, or spare parts, or maintenance. Get ready for the pilots to have a tip jar!

I don’t mind that these companies are trying to make money. That is what companies do. I also don’t mind getting ripped off. But only when it’s done really well. Entertain me while you’re doing it, that’s all I’m saying. At least hire a firm to come up with better excuses. I could do it in a snap. Here for example: “You can’t listen to your MP3 players on take off and landing because the music along with altitude change could damage your eardrums.” Which may actually be true now that I give it some thought. Any studies on this?

Here are some other ways I think airlines can make more money: Start charging for sodas. More for juices. $1 charge if you use your, “Call flight attendant button.” Charge for faster check ins, priority luggage that comes down the carrousel first, and for on time take offs and landings. Oh, bathroom tokens. They could get us there (first one free of course). Charge 25 cents to print a boarding pass at the airport. Force us to use more of our home ink supply. I don’t know who’s controlling the ink, but I’m all for a war to bring down those prices. A “War for ink.” Let’s invade the ink producing countries and get this under control. A gallon of gas is almost $4 and a gallon of ink is almost a thousand. Ink is expensive- I still have 2 payments left on my last color cartridge.

They ought to just paint these airplanes school bus yellow. Because that’s how they treat us most of the time. Like little kids on a school bus. And if you don’t know how to buckle a seat belt at this point, you don’t deserve to be wearing one. And don’t get me wrong, I meet plenty of very pleasant airline employees. Unfortunately, when it happens I’m shocked. And I usually write the airline a letter on their behalf. But I am prepared for the worst. And that’s sad. Even sadder, now when they ask me what to do in the even of an emergency, I lie to them.

*** Orny Adams is a stand-up comedian and writer who knows it is easy to go after the airlines.

People are invading my personal space too much. Stay away. I don’t need you to rub up against me at baggage claim. I was there first. Get another spot. See over there? That’s a nice spot for you. It’s like the people that show up late at a general seating concert and push their way to the front. Because they’re more important than the people that showed up early and played by the rules. Too many rule breakers are rewarded in society. And we must all put an end to this.

The guy next to me on the plane kept trying to read what I was writing. I was writing, “Stop reading what I’m writing. I’m serious, stop reading what I am writing.” I even tried shielding my writing with my left hand. He leaned in. And this thirty something guy had something I had never seen or smelled before in my entire life—old person breath on a young person. He smelled like a grandparent. A real old grandparent. Not a new, fresh to the world of grandparenting grandparent. It was like sitting next to a portable nursing home. My head started to create the illusionary scent of mothball to balance his breath. Those two things go together like peanut butter and jelly. Hot chocolate and marshmallows. Me and suffering. Most amazing to me, now that I think about it, the mothball is still in existence? Meanwhile the moth has been extinct for years. Or at least the kind that eats our clothes. I have some pretty tasty clothes and no takers?

It seems that people all over are trying to edge their way ahead of me. Whether it’s in shopping lines, or the gym, or the highway. All of life has become a competition. People will take advantage of me, of you, if I let them. At a restaurant, they will try to give you the worst table first and only the best table if you ask for it. Now if you ask for it while they’re seating you, cool. If you ask for it when a couple is ahead of you and deserve it… THEN YOU HAVE INVADED MY PERSONAL SPACE! Even if I am not part of the couple. My space has been compromised.

See, I am a rules player. I play by the rules. I believe in an orderly universe. This is why I signal when I drive. This is why I consider how my actions in public may affect others around me. There are the people that start a cell phone conversation right next to me while I’m already on a cell phone conversation. HEY, GET YOUR OWN CELL PHONE TALKING AREA! That just blows my mind. I wonder if the next generation will consider talking on a cell phone at a restaurant rude or will that become acceptable behavior? I am also, apparently, one of the few people that realizes that you don’t need to yell on a cell phone. That the technology has actually come so far that those microphones can pick up a voice at a socially acceptable level. Maybe that person next to you doesn’t care to know all your personal business, that ever occur to you? What might be interesting to you, may not be so interesting to others.

Which brings me back to the plane. Your cute kid running up and down the aisle knocking into everybody is not so cute to everybody else. And maybe it was cute for some of us the first three dozen times he did it. But on a six hour flight, you have now invaded my personal space. Come any closer and I’ll have this guy breath on you and your kid. It is a bit disconcerting and unnerving to have a wild two year fly by every few seconds. And you knew it was going to happen and it did. I was just hoping it wasn’t going to be with me. But it was. The kid wiped out and fell on my shoe. The kid burst into tears. And all around the plane people’s heads shot up and suddenly I was no longer a victim, I was child abuser. Crying and pointing at me. I envisioned two air marshals coming over guns drawn, to secure the situation. That didn’t happen, so I just sat back and looked forward to the remaining three hours devoid of personal space trying to enjoy the rhythms of the guy behind me kicking my chair… tray up, tray down, tray up, tray down. And this is why I try to never leave my house.

I like to call what we are in, right now, the “Season of Excuses.” Business will grind to a halt. If it hasn’t already. Or maybe that is just my perception. But these months are fertile with excuses for agents and managers to dole out to curious clients looking for work. I can distinctively remember the first excuse I ever got in this business. That was from my commercial agent that proclaimed, “It’s slow for your type right now.” My type? A twenty-something, white male? Commercials are flooded with my type. How could that be? Welcome to the business of excuse making. I didn’t buy it then and I’m not buying it now. But I have a higher tolerance and a greater understanding. And so should you:

Here is how this “Season of Excuses” always sounds to me:

“Did we hear back from those people,” that’s me.

“Not yet. . It’s the week before the Jewish holidays. Probably won’t hear back until next week,” that’s somebody I’m doing work with.

That’s just the beginning because the next week is the actual Jewish holidays and nothing gets done. Then it’s the week after the Jewish holidays and people are just getting back into the swing of things. Wait… there’s another Jewish holiday on Friday? Then it’s the week after that Jewish holiday and we can’t expect people to be ready to work… yet. Then it’s the week before Halloween, the week of Halloween, and of course the week after Halloween. Yes, yes, Halloween is a non-working holiday. People do have kids out here. And now it is the week before Thanksgiving, the week of Thanksgiving, then the week after Thanksgiving. Then it’s the weeks before Christmas. People need to shop and prepare. December is basically a wash. Then Christmas comes and goes. And so does New Years. “HAPPY NEW YEAR!,” we all yell. We pop champaign. We all celebrate. A new beginning. “This is going to be my year.” If I say that to myself one more time! Then of course nothing is up and running at full speed until February. Which for those of us in LA means, the “Season of Excuses,” has now bled into another season—“Pilot Season.” (Our seasons aren’t weather contingent.) Pilot season is also the “Season of Hope.” The season we all compete for the few coveted spots on new television shows, which are called pilots, and are mostly, sort of cast, well, ahead of time. Shhhh, that might be a secret. Which means it’s slow for my type again. My type meaning, not one of the people that the networks had in mind prior to general casting for the part. I am, in fact, part of the group that they use to prove that the guy they had in mind, was actually the right choice. I have never, in all my years of auditioning, ever seen the guy who actually books the job at the audition.

So, I was completely thrown off this week when I was offered up the most incredible excuse of all time. “We won’t hear back today, it’s raining. Nobody’s working.” Now, had I been quick on my feet I would’ve said something witty like, “What’s the five day forecast for my career? Partly active?” But I was too shocked. And I was sitting down. Did he just say rain? Is that another Jewish holiday? It hit me like a ton of bricks. A weather contingent excuse! Have we sunk that low? Rain motivates me. But that’s just me.

Now, tomorrow it’s supposed to be cloudy. I think that’s proper work getting done weather. Don’t you? But I could be wrong. I can already hear the phone ringing: “We won’t hear today. It’s overcast. People are leaving early.”

Hope is a great coping mechanism. Hope is what carries us from one disappointment to another. Thanks for making it to the end of the page. If I had the time, I’d make an “Excuse of the Day Calendar,” and give them out as holiday gifts. I mean, they deserve something for all the hard work.

I like to call what we are in, right now, the “Season of Excuses.” Business will grind to a halt. If it hasn’t already. Or maybe that is just my perception. But these months are fertile with excuses for agents and managers to dole out to curious clients looking for work. I can distinctively remember the first excuse I ever got in this business. That was from my commercial agent that proclaimed, “It’s slow for your type right now.” My type? A twenty-something, white male? Commercials are flooded with my type. How could that be? Welcome to the business of excuse making. I didn’t buy it then and I’m not buying it now. But I have a higher tolerance and a greater understanding. And so should you:

Here is how this “Season of Excuses” always sounds to me:

“Did we hear back from those people,” that’s me.

“Not yet. . It’s the week before the Jewish holidays. Probably won’t hear back until next week,” that’s somebody I’m doing work with.

That’s just the beginning because the next week is the actual Jewish holidays and nothing gets done. Then it’s the week after the Jewish holidays and people are just getting back into the swing of things. Wait… there’s another Jewish holiday on Friday? Then it’s the week after that Jewish holiday and we can’t expect people to be ready to work… yet. Then it’s the week before Halloween, the week of Halloween, and of course the week after Halloween. Yes, yes, Halloween is a non-working holiday. People do have kids out here. And now it is the week before Thanksgiving, the week of Thanksgiving, then the week after Thanksgiving. Then it’s the weeks before Christmas. People need to shop and prepare. December is basically a wash. Then Christmas comes and goes. And so does New Years. “HAPPY NEW YEAR!,” we all yell. We pop champaign. We all celebrate. A new beginning. “This is going to be my year.” If I say that to myself one more time! Then of course nothing is up and running at full speed until February. Which for those of us in LA means, the “Season of Excuses,” has now bled into another season—“Pilot Season.” (Our seasons aren’t weather contingent.) Pilot season is also the “Season of Hope.” The season we all compete for the few coveted spots on new television shows, which are called pilots, and are mostly, sort of cast, well, ahead of time. Shhhh, that might be a secret. Which means it’s slow for my type again. My type meaning, not one of the people that the networks had in mind prior to general casting for the part. I am, in fact, part of the group that they use to prove that the guy they had in mind, was actually the right choice. I have never, in all my years of auditioning, ever seen the guy who actually books the job at the audition.

So, I was completely thrown off this week when I was offered up the most incredible excuse of all time. “We won’t hear back today, it’s raining. Nobody’s working.” Now, had I been quick on my feet I would’ve said something witty like, “What’s the five day forecast for my career? Partly active?” But I was too shocked. And I was sitting down. Did he just say rain? Is that another Jewish holiday? It hit me like a ton of bricks. A weather contingent excuse! Have we sunk that low? Rain motivates me. But that’s just me.

Now, tomorrow it’s supposed to be cloudy. I think that’s proper work getting done weather. Don’t you? But I could be wrong. I can already hear the phone ringing: “We won’t hear today. It’s overcast. People are leaving early.”

Hope is a great coping mechanism. Hope is what carries us from one disappointment to another. Thanks for making it to the end of the page. If I had the time, I’d make an “Excuse of the Day Calendar,” and give them out as holiday gifts. I mean, they deserve something for all the hard work.

Am I the only one returning all my emails? Let me know. Sometimes it’s a simple, “Got it, or a “I’ll let you know,” maybe even a, “Thanks.” But the message is clear: I got your email and I care. With the inernet, PDA’s, and cell phones we now communicate more than ever. Or do we? It seems so one sided at times. I can’t stand when my emails go unreturned. And I’m sick of the excuses, “I didn’t have time.” But you had time to read them? So it appears we communicate more, but more selfishly.

We got the tools.

I communicate with people I would otherwise never: Like old college friends, people I meet briefly at a coffee shop, or people from the other side of the world that saw me in this or saw me in that. Email is great for that. And yet, our communication skills seem to be dwindling. Everyday, the news reports on the latest pandemic. This week it’s Bird Flu. Before that it was SARS. “The oil reserves will be completely depleted by 2020,” they scream. Haven’t we already proven we suck at predicting the future? I remember having an oil crises in the 70s when I was a kid. And whatever happened to the hovercraft? I care about the future, but I’m living in the now. Besides, I’m more of a social scientist.

Anyway, it’s always something. The sky is always falling. (And maybe with global warming this time it really is.) But I’ll tell you what’s the real epidemic- RUDENESS (Or pandemic if you want to sound grander.) People don’t return emails, doors that are graciously opened are left unthanked. In fact, “Thank yous” in general are down 42%. It’s not uncommon to counter tip an employee and they don’t even look up. The attitude appears to have evolved into, “You owe me.” I tend to thank people that should be thanking me. “Thank you,” I say to the waiter as I hand him my money. And I think, “Shouldn’t he be thanking me.” And he doesn’t. Is it uncool to have manners?

On the airport shuttle yesterday, an elderly couple boarded. And everybody watched them struggle getting their luggage on. I jumped up to help, and gave up my seat. People looked at me like I was a freak. “You wussy.” “Look at Mr. Polite.” It was a reflex. I mean,… that is still the right thing to do? Does the new generation know that you’re supposed to give up a seat to a pregnant woman? Thirty years ago it was to any woman. Not anymore. Now we treat woman like men on public transportation. We let them open their own doors… even on dates. We sneeze on them. I see people sneeze all the time and don’t cover their mouths. “Here, have some germs.” I would say, “Bless you,” to these people, but I need to wait for the germs to clear.

What do we value these days? Maybe if we were all just a little bit nicer and cordial… boy if that word doesn’t sound dated and obsolete. (Cordial: adj; warm and friendly.) Here is my definition: Cordial: Something you were while enjoying a root beer float.

We don’t communicate more, we communicate less (efficiently). And with that less, it seems more of it is negative. Think of the internet as a large reflection pool most people spit their venomous hate into. And it filled up quickly. But take a deep look at your reflection. Is it pretty? It’s really not harder to be nice. We have all the tools to communicate more, but we’ve lost our skills. With the invention and proliferation of cell phones and their unperfected technology we have dropped calls. And most of the time, when a call is dropped one party decides that is a good time to end the conversation anyway. I’m guilty of that. “I’ll just let it go to voicemail, I’m done talking to him anyway.” There are millions of unresolved calls out there.

So really, we communicate less. Which is fine with me. It may feel like more. We probably spend more time communicating, but the substance is less. At least less human. Let’s eradicate rudeness. Send that appeal to the WHO or CDC or FEMA. To each other. And if you disagree, send me an email and watch me not return it. Thank you.